The Cherry-Blossom Tree
by ImThatTypeOfGirl
Summary: After the events of Portal 2, city AU. "He would sit here often, alone. The little park behind the railway station, the little bench under the cherry-blossom tree." Can Chell ever find Wheatley and can she bring herself to forgive him for what he did? One-shot.


**A/N: Hey, this came to me in like a split second and I jotted it down. I'm not sure about this writing style, let me know what you think. Tried to make it slightly...poetic? But I'm not sure if it worked. Review please, it'd mean a lot x**

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**The Cherry-Blossom Tree**

He would sit here often, alone. The little park behind the railway station, the little bench under the cherry-blossom tree. In summer it would bloom flowers of pink and purple and look like a Valentine's sunset. In winter it was thin and sickly, deep brown branches against the painfully white snow.

Here, every day, after work; a laptop on his knee, a cup of coffee in his hand. His nervous fingers playing through his mess of dark blonde hair, his spectacled blue eyes searching the city landscape for something he'd never find.

He'd wear his black suit and trousers, his crisp white shirt, always crumpled, never ironed. His tie matched the brilliant colour of his eyes. He never wore any other colour, and in winter the tie would come off as the cherry tree's blossoms were whisked away.

An hour, maybe two. Even if it was raining, longer if it was snowing. Sometimes there was a dark blue umbrella, just in case. The trains rattled on their tracks in front of him, too distant to be annoying, too close to block it out. He'd watch the world go by.

He'd watch it fade away.

It was always the same; from the train to the pavement, from the pavement to the earth, from the earth to the wrought-iron and then back again. He couldn't remember not being here, feeling the tree above him like a shield from the sky and the bench beneath him like a push away from the ground.

Then it changed.

A difference.

He didn't know how he felt about it.

April. The umbrella was there, the sky was grey. Rain misted between the blossoming buds. A train pulled up, screeching metal against metal. He didn't need to look up; if anyone ever got off they always went straight on by.

But today was different, remember.

If he'd looked up he would have seen a woman climb off, tousled hair and messed up clothes. A woman with a thick black ponytail and slacks, a woman with a bright orange jacket and white undershirt. A woman looking his way.

The umbrella moved.

He didn't notice.

The woman sat down, out of breath, rummaging in a midnight bag. He kept typing. She glances up. He doesn't. She leans over, curiosity dancing in her silvery eyes; grey like the sky. Stormy, brave…

Powerful.

He finally sees her, his blue-eyed gaze anxious, unsure. She pulls back, biting her lip. They're the colour of pale roses, like the cherry blossoms above, still not fully flowering yet. He notices. She averts her eyes, hands diving back into the depths of her bag. He is the intrigued one now, fingers ceasing their dance across the keyboard.

She laughs. He jumps, suddenly afraid. She becomes quiet, quiet as the grave. The train has long since pulled away. The two did not notice it go.

She smiles, tentatively, her headstrong personality limited by the edgy, jittery man beside her. He tries to smile back. The buzz of a cell phone interrupts them; her fingers back into her bag, his eyes back on the screen. She doesn't speak, he doesn't ask. The nervousness returns like smoke, thick and choking.

The rain stops. The sky begins to clear.

Twenty minutes, half an hour.

He sits, uncomfortable, failing to concentrate on his work.

An hour, maybe two.

She sits, not speaking, watching the world go by.

Watching it fade away.

He looks up. She immediately turns to face him, her cherry-blossom lips curving up into a gentle smile. For once, he shuts the lid of his laptop. He beams back, fiddling with his fingers, running them across his knees.

Two children in a school yard, two who've never met. Unsure, blushing, the feelings inside them rushing like a stream, a river, an ocean, a tidal wave washing everything away. Her eyes are inquisitive, tension creeping into his sea-blue ones. It's new, it's unsafe…

The umbrella sits, wrapped neatly, like a dark blue wall in between them.

She looks at it, wondering.

The sun now shines brightly from a pale cerulean sky. The clouds have disappeared like patches on a painted canvas, like snow melting from the branches and leaves, slipping away.

He moves the umbrella.

Three hours. Four?

It's getting dark. The blue has faded from the sky, red and orange bleeding out across the heavens like a nasty cut.

They sit.

They don't talk.

They smile.

She picks up her bag, her lips turning down slightly.

Those beautiful lips.

Miserable now.

He nods, understanding. He is surprised when she sits back down. She rests her hand on his, a brief moment, a glowing firefly, a falling star. Too warm, the air turning cold. Snow on hot water, melting in its embrace.

Two children in a school yard, two who've never met. But they have. The tidal wave comes to an end, as all things must. The feelings fade; cherry blossoms in the winter. The sun vanishes; the tree is cloaked in darkness and casts frightening, claw-like shadows across the pavement.

She leaves.

Her figure retreats into the night, her beauty ruined by the glow of the streetlights. He looks at his hands, shaking like the leaves in autumn, falling from trees and dying alone, cold, on the murky ground. Tears fall like those leaves, drip-drop, like a tap you've forgotten to turn off. They splash onto his fingers, soak into his trousers.

He had jumped, the edge so close.

He missed.

He picked up his laptop and packed it away; he grabbed the umbrella and began walking.

He stopped. He turned around and moved back to the wrought-iron bench. When he left the park beside the train station, the umbrella was the only one keeping the cherry tree company. A soldier, a grave, a bouquet.

Roses, of course.

Red.

Never white.

He returned the next day, as usual. The little park behind the railway station, the little bench under the cherry-blossom tree. The umbrella, alone, the buds trying to bloom into the world. He sat, he doubted, he waited, so long.

He watched the world go by, watched it fade away.

She didn't come.

Spring flourished into summer, summer washed away into autumn, autumn turned, very quickly, to winter. The cherry tree loses its colour, its blooms, looks blackened and dead. Its branches waver in the wind, unsure. He comes, he works, he watches, he goes.

The umbrella doesn't move.

Sometimes, he cries.

But not often.

As spring rolls round again like that happy memory you'd forgotten, a while back, stored it away, locked it up tight, the cherry tree blooms again. The city grows, the population rises. He steps off the train and moves to the park. He sits on the bench beside the blue umbrella.

His hands don't move to his laptop case this time. Something's not right, there's...

A difference.

He knows exactly how he feels about it.

A train screams as it enters the station. He looks up, tears brimming in his ocean eyes. Can oceans cry? Cry out for the sky, reach for its pale blue sibling, pray, weep for wings to join the clouds as they sail across the sky on a river of dreams?

A woman steps off of the train. She wears a soft orange dress, tucked in at the middle with a blue belt. She walks over. He lowers his gaze as she sits down next to him. The storm comes, playing with clouds like wind with snow and turns the ocean's brother into darker, fiercer, _braver_ reflection of itself. Her eyes try to catch his; he doesn't know what to do, to feel.

She moves the umbrella.

His gaze meets hers.

A name tag is pinned to her dress. It reads: **CHELLE**. He takes in the word. He looks into her eyes, the ocean colliding with the storm and sending the waters into a foaming frenzy. She smiles.

He takes her hand, she doesn't seem to notice. His nervousness vanishes like the rain the day they met.

"It's Wheatley," he says, shyly.

She nods. "I know. I remember."

"I'm sorry." His words are quiet, laced with regret.

She takes a moment, a breath, the world pauses. The cherry tree scatters blossoms across the pair, the impatient wind racing through its branches like horses across the field, tearing the flowers from their stems. She brushes the blooms from her orange dress, exhaling, trying to smile despite the tears brimming in her silvery eyes.

"I forgive you."

He looks up, the same tears reflected in his own eyes.

"For everything."

Time moves by. The trains drag their bulky metal bodies in and out of the station; the cherry tree sending blossoms raining across the tracks. In summer it blooms flowers of pink and purple and look like a Valentine's sunset. In winter it is thin and sickly, deep brown branches against the painfully white snow. But we know this. The cherry-tree, in the little park behind the railway station, shielding the bench hidden beneath it.

He never comes here anymore.

Neither does she.

The only one who sits upon the wrought-iron bench nowadays is a dark blue umbrella, its colour like the sky just before sunset. It's old now, wrinkled, battered by relentless seasons.

All alone, it watches the world go by.

Watches it fade away.


End file.
